Portrait of a Hitman
by modalismodalism
Summary: Oneshot. The painting above the second step on the staircase near the kitchen had always been his favorite. 8059.


**A/N: Oh snap! First story in over 7 months! And in a new fandom too; I feel accomplished. Trying out a new style too so try not to hate on it too much.**

**Disclaimer: At this point I find it unneccessary to write a disclaimer, it's pretty clear KHR does not belong to me. **

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He is two years old the first time he sees the painting. It is not very big and it is hung low above the second step on the staircase near the kitchen. It is the first in a line of many paintings ascending above the stairs. If he jumps as high as he can, he can catch a fleeting glimpse of the faces of seven people; a flash of blue hair here, a glimmer of a green eye there.

This is not very satisfying. He wants to see more.

* * *

It is not until he is almost three years old that he is tall enough to see the portrait properly for more than a second at a time. Even so, he needs to stand on the tips of toes and crane his neck upwards to see past the dusty golden frame. He has looked at all the other paintings going up and down the staircase but this one is his favorite. Each of the seven men in the portrait are dressed in identical black suits, but other than that they couldn't be more different. From the burly man with the bandage on his nose to the green haired boy with his right eye shut, he is fascinated by them all but his favorites are the three in the center. The one in the middle stares proudly back at him through the painting, his golden eyes sharp and wise. He admires the commanding, charismatic aura he seems to possess even when rendered in oils.

He decides he likes the tattooed man on the right a bit more. This one too seems to have an air about him that transcends the paint and canvas, albeit a different kind from the golden eyed man in the center. From his messy red hair to the cigarette dangling carelessly from his mouth, everything about him speaks to fire and dangerous raging winds; a hurricane amongst humans. He cannot help but think that he would like to be exactly like this man when he grows up.

But as much as he admires the tattooed man, his favorite by far is the Japanese man on the left. He is the most unadorned of the seven with no particularly unusual traits to draw the eye towards him. Yet, he cannot help but like this one the best of all. There's something about his soft smile and the genuine warmth in his brown eyes. They remind him of the lady who often comes to visit him. The lady with the beautiful long silver hair whose smile and kind words send a ball of warmth to his stomach. When he looks at this man in the picture, he cannot help but see that lady's smile in his and he cannot help the warm feeling in his stomach. Yes, he really did like this smiling Japanese man best of all.

* * *

He is six years old when he learns who is in the portrait. He has been visiting the small painting above the second step everyday for over three years now. Sometimes as he hovers on the stairs, he stares at the smiling man and wonders when the silver haired lady will come back to see him. He hasn't seen her for years now. The warm feeling in his stomach has started to fade but the Japanese man is still his favorite.

His tutor is the one who catches him lingering on the staircase; he is late for his math lesson. His tutor is the one who tells him the portrait is of the Vongola Primo and his guardians, the most powerful mafia family in all of Italy and in all the world. It is tradition, he explains, for the families allied with the Vongola to hang the portraits of the Vongola in their castles. It is only respectful after all.

* * *

He is eight years old when everything changes. He has been lied to and he is not happy about it. The silver haired lady is, no, _was_ his mother and she is dead. She is never coming back to see him and he will never see her smile again, never feel that warmth in his stomach again. As he rushes down the staircase near the kitchen he can't bear to even glance at the portrait, can't bear to even glimpse that smile that reminded him of his mothers. He runs, and runs, and runs, and never looks back. He doesn't know where to go once he's out of the castle, he just needs to get away. Away from everything. Away from his father, away from his sister, away from their lies. As he runs, he remembers the words of his tutor from two years ago.

_Vongola_.

* * *

He is fourteen years old when he arrives in Japan and meets _him_ for the first time. Everything about him is infuriating: his idiocy, his obsession with basebell, his easygoing nature, but most of all his smiles and there is hardly ever a time that moron isn't smiling. Yet, somehow, he finds himself liking this boy more than he should. There's something familiar about that smile; every time he sees it there is a ghost of a tingle down his spine and a phantom warmth in his stomach but he can't quite place the feeling. In his mind's eye all he can see is the hazy image of a grand piano, a flash of silver, and a dusty gold picture frame.

The portrait has been shoved to the back of his mind. He has not thought about it for six years.

* * *

He is nineteen years old when he returns to Italy and sees the portrait again. It is undoubtedly the same painting, the same seven people. In that instant, his childhood days spent lingering on the staircase come rushing back to him. He remembers now the awe he felt when he looked into the piercing gaze of the golden haired man in the center. He remembers now the admiration he had for the tattooed man on his right, the Vongola Primo's right-hand man. As he lights up a cigarette to mirror the portrait of his childhood role model, he can't but think the first storm guardian would be proud.

He exhales and shifts his gaze to the left. To the smiling Japanese man. He remembers now how the painted smile reminded him of his mothers. The same twinkle in their eyes, the same delicate upturn of their lips. He remembers the warmth that would pool in his stomach when he gazed upon this painting, the same warmth his mother had given him. He closes his eyes and pictures another smile, this one much more real than a painting or his fading memories. He realizes now what that feeling he had was every time he saw that idiot's cheerful face. That ghost of a tingle, that phantom warmth.

He opens his eyes and stubs out the cigarette and takes one last look at the portrait before he turns his back. There is somewhere he needs to be right now. Somewhere where a certain grinning idiot is waiting for him, ready to melt him with a smile and a gentle touch.

* * *

He is nineteen years old when he realizes that he is in love.

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**A/N: This turned out so much longer than I thought it would. I suppose that's what I get for writing in the middle of the night. Not sure how this one turned out. Anyways comments and criticisms are always appreciated so drop a review if you can.**


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